"Here, joined in death, th' observer sees Plato and Alcibiades;

A mixture of the grave and funny,
A famous dish of Salmagundi."

Allan M'Gregor! from afar

I see him, midst the ranks of war,
That all around are rising fast

From slumbers that may be their last;
I know him by his Highland plaid,
Long borne in foray and in raid,

His scarf, all splashed with dust and gore,
His nodding plume, and broad claymore;
I know him by that eagle eye,
Where foemen read their destiny;

I know him by that iron brow

That frowns not, burns not, quails not, now,
Though life and death are with the ray
That redly dawns upon to-day.

Woe to the wretch whose single might
Copes with dark Allan in the fight;
He knows not mercy-knows not fear;
The pibroch has to Allan's ear
A clearer and a sweeter note
Than mellow strains that blithely float
From lyre or lute, in courtly throng,
Where Beauty smiles upon the song.
Of artful wiles against his foe
Nothing he knows, or cares to know;

Far less he recks of polished arts,
The batteries in the siege of hearts.
And hence the minions of the ton,
While fair and foolish dames look on,
Laugh at Old Allan's awkward bow,
His stern address, and haughty brow.
Laugh they?-when sounds the hollow drum,
And banded legions onward come,

And life is won by ready sword,

By strength to strike, and skill to ward,
Those tongues, so brave in woman's war,
Those cheeks, unstained by scratch or scar,
Shall owe their safety in the fight

To hoary Allan's arm of might.

Close to the Clansman's side is seen
Dame Fortune's soldier, James M'Lean.
I know him well-no novice he
In warfare's murderous theory;
Amidst the battle's various sound,
While bullets flew like hail around,
M'Lean was born; in scenes like this
He passed his earliest hours of bliss;
Cradled in war, the fearless child

Looked on the scene of blood, and smiled;

Toyed with the sabre of the Blues
Long ere he knew its hellish use;
His little fingers loved to feel

The bayonet's bright point of steel,

Or made his father's helmet ring

With beating up-" God save the King!"
Those hours of youthful glee are fled;
The thin gray hairs are on his head;
Of youth's hot current naught remains
Within the ancient warrior's veins.
Yet, when he hears the battle-cry,
His spirit beats as wild and high
As on the day that saw him wield
His virgin sword on battle-field;

The eve on which his comrades found him,

With England's colours wrapped around him,
His face turned upwards, and his hand
Still twined around his trusty brand,

As, spent with wounds, and weak with toil,
He lay upon the bloody soil.

E'en now, though swift advancing years
Might well decline this life of fears,
Though the deep scars upon his breast
Show claim to honourable rest,

He will not quit what time has made
His joy, his habit, and his trade.

He envies not the peasant's lot,

His cheerful hearth, and humble cot;
Encampments have to him become

As constant, and as dear a home.

Such are the hearts of steel, whom War Binds in their cradle to his car,

And leaves them in their latter day,
With honour, medals, and half-pay,
Burdened with all the cares of life,
Repentance-asthma--and a wife.

And what am I, who thus can choose
Such subject for so light a muse?

Who wake the smile, and weave the rhyme
In such a scene, at such a time?
Mary, whose pure and holy kiss
Is still a cherished dream of bliss,
When last I saw thy bright blue eye,
And heard thy voice of melody,
And felt thy timid, mild caress,
I was all hope-all joyousness!
We parted-and the morrow's sun-
O God! my bliss was past and done;

The lover's hope, the husband's vow,

Where were they then? ah! where wert thou?

Mary! thou vision loved and wept,
Long years have passed since thou hast slept,
Removed from gaze of mortal eye,

The dreamless sleep of those that die:
Long years! yet has not passed away
The memory of that fatal day
When all thy young and faded grace
Before me lay in Death's embrace.

A throb of madness and of pain

Shot through my heart and through my brain;
I felt it then, I feel it now,

Though time is stamped upon my brow;
Though all my veins grow cold with age,
And o'er my memory's fading page
Oblivion draws her damning line,
And blots all images-save thine.

Thou left'st me-and I did become
An alien from my house and home;
A phantom in life's busy dream;
A bubble on misfortune's stream;
Condemned through varying scenes to rove,
With naught to hope, and naught to love;
No inward motive, that can give

Or fear to die, or wish to live.

Away! away! Death rides the breeze!
There is no time for thoughts like these;
Hark! from the foeman's distant camp
I hear their chargers' sullen tramp;
On! valiant Britons, to the fight!
On! for St. George, and England's right!
Green be the laurel-bright the meed,
Of those that shine in martial deed!
Short be the pang-swift pass the breath,
Of those that die a Soldier's death.